in crime …
wrong site, my bad.
in crime …
wrong site, my bad.
my eldest daughter is 30. i had her just after i turned 16. our lives were hard; slightly tormented, but i did the best i could & loved her like no other.
she has her own family now. a beautiful growing family.
today she messaged me to let me know that a friend of hers had died. he’s a friend of mine too, but not like her. i’m the mother of lol. i’m the one that got called ‘…. her mum’. i remember him from my girls school days & caught up with him in later years via facebook, as you do.
he took his own life.
he left behind a little boy whose just turned one.
i don’t think i’m sad because he died this way … i get it … he had a tormented life too. i don’t think i’m sad because he left behind his son … he’ll be loved & cared for.
i think i’m sad because as i get older & as i watch my kids grow up & have kids of their own; i can see their pain as their lives unfold & as they make their decisions. as they lose their friends & make new friends. & it hurts me.
i guess that’s the mother in me.
the part of me that always wanted to keep them safe knowing that they’d have to grow up & make their own decisions: live their own lives. but still somewhere in me is that basic instinct that wants them to be safe from all harm.
& it sucks when it doesn’t work.
my girl is sad but realistic. she has regrets & wishes. i guess that’s all part of life.
but today: it sucks shit.
i’ve had lots of really vivid dreams over the last week or so. lots about my sister.
the other night i dreamt about an old friend of mine. her, her family and her old house.
they’re a pretty wealthy lot.
in my dream i saw her parents big old house, with the 10 odd rooms. each room huge and palatial.
her parents were asleep in seperate bedrooms. sick. and tired.
my friend was organising the household.
everything was ultra quiet. and cold.
when i woke up, it occurred to me, that all that money; all that hard work, produced nothing but distance, sickness, tiredness and resentment.
and a really large house for everyone to live separately in and ignore each other.
i wondered what the actual point of all that was. all that money and no love.
And The Last Word Goes Too:
(not my meme; or Johannas ;))
I have a blogging friend.
Her name is Kara.
She’s a bit stubborn.
She’s one hell of a machine too!
And she loves …
Yep. Thats right.
Now my friend has a few things ‘happening’.
And she could do with some pickles right now.
And I thought I might package some of our NZ pickles up and send her some.
However, due to the recent immigration ‘restrictions’, I wasn’t sure if those little beauties would actually make it over the border:
And it would seem the only pickles welcome are those in this sandwich!
Oh and in a McDs burger:
So my alternate solution was going to be to send Kara some nice pickle related paraphernalia … like theses:
But found that these would probably not make it over the boarder either … as they are ‘alt-solutions’ and these aren’t welcome … just ‘alt-facts’.
But not to be deterred!
It would seem blogging hasn’t been completely censored yet …
A – Hah, I thought … Why not ‘send’ Kara a beautiful little post, reminding her that she is deeply admired; that her ‘comments’ and virtual friendship are also deeply appreciated … and that if she doesn’t meet her ‘obligations’ … I shalt virtually kick her ass ;)
So Kara, This last pickle Accolade is Just For You :)
Please get better-er soon :)
And for everyone else:
Check out the quick witt of Ms Kara @
Making the best of the sh*t I’ve got”
As we pack up…well actually I pack up, and the partner moves around the house making it look like he’s packing up…yes, I know your steez! lol…we came across ‘the bro’s’ “box”. Well, not really ‘came across’ either…we know exactly where he has been…in our house! We’ve had him here with us for nearly 2 years. And he’s been dead, nearly 3; and me and the partner got to talking, as we do.
‘the bro’ is one of the partners very bestest friends…I call them BFFs, but that’s apparently not very manly…so ‘bros’ it is. There were 3 of them in their ‘pack’ and they’ve been friends nearly all his life. Each one of them make up a very quirky whole. And whenever they got together it was beyond funny to watch…but quite a mesmerizing blessing to be part of.
Anyways, the bro in the box, topped himself nearly 3 years ago. I’ve written about him before, and generally try not to delve into his story…as its his story, and he can’t tell it anymore. But as it pertains to me…well, that’s different. And as it pertains to my relationship with his ‘bro’, my partner, that’s a different thing too.
When the partners bro topped himself there was the disbelief phase, the tears, the grief, the anger…all in circles and roundabouts they came. He left behind 4 beautiful children; then nearly 3 all the way up to nearly 17. The kids had their dad for a year…and is the ‘custom’ (loosely said…), he was supposed to be put in the ground after that year had passed.
There was disagreement about where he should lay…whose urupa (family cemetery) he should be at. But these disagreements were just the tip of the ice berg(s) really. Some of the family said he shouldn’t be buried anywhere because of what he had done to himself. Some said he shouldn’t be cremated and left in the box to be sitting on a shelf somewhere (that somewhere is our house btw!).
But what prevails really…is denial, grief and anger.
And me. My point of view. For the family…I get it. Both sides. His and theirs. But he’s dead now. And he’s gathering dust on our shelf. How respectful is that to anyone?
Then theres the ‘my’ opinion pertaining to ‘the partner’.
I watch him wrangling with denial and disbelief…and then swinging into anger and grief and disbelief. He asks himself ‘why’ and ‘wtf’ in the most manly of ways lol. And that hurts me. Seeing him hurt.
And then theres the ‘mine and the partners’ view of the whole thing.
When the bro arrived here, I blessed his box and gave him the rules (yes I believe the dead can still hear us). I told him if he played up he’d have to go to the shed. Then we made room for him on the shelf in our lounge. The partner put his bros photo up and a few mementos. A miniature shrine is what we ended up with. But it was only going to be for a year…while the daughters decided where their dad should be laid to rest.
We deal with the grief differently than most I suppose. Don’t get me wrong…we’ve done our fair share of ‘why would he do that to himself…to his family…to his BFFs’. And then we talk to the bro…usually call him an asshole or a fuckwit followed by generally taking the piss out of the whole situation…we’ll tell him he can pick his task for the week…door stop…or foot rest…or cup holder…then we say to him, ‘hey if you’re gonna stay here, you need to pull your weight…’, all with a bit of a tear and a laugh. But under all that jest…it hurts the partner…more than me. I hurt, because he hurts. And laughter helps him to process all that stuff that he can’t explain sometimes…
But now, nearly 2 years have gone by and the bro has gathered dust on the shelf…and I wonder why they haven’t asked for him?
And that’s what me and the partner got to talking about.
For all the family’s disagreements about where their son, father, uncle, nephew…should lay to rest…none of them have actually faced that he is still here. That this dude topped himself. He thought to do that…because he was sad, because he couldn’t see a way out, because…we don’t know. Yes they may feel that it was a self fish act of violence against himself and against them…but we will never know…
And leaving him to gather dust on the shelf…
Well, now that’s sad.
For whatever his reasons were, he was a loved friend of the partner. And I get the family’s grief…but I think we get a say now…
So my real opinion, as it pertains to me…and my experience with suicide and death and love and depression and feeling sad and being trapped and…
I think its cruel to leave him locked up in that box for this long…when what he was looking for to begin with was…freedom.
Who are we to keep it from him now?
when its gone
it’s all gone.
your loved and love.
nothing hurts. there’s no more.
threat to you.
you can rest in nothing.
he was officially homeless.
he smiled more than most.
he wore sun glasses.
with no lenses.
he said it was an irony.
he possessed a guitar.
and the clothes he wore.
and a blanket.
he drank as much as me.
just different liquid.
when everything else was closed.
we’d find each other.
we’d laugh and sing.
first night he found me.
i was holding up McD’s window.
i couldn’t see 2 fingers in front of my face.
you a’ight babe
you got’a home babe.
nodding all the while
that wasn’t a question.
picking up my drunk ass
he took me to his ‘place’.
tucked me in with his only blanket.
one last nip.
a pat on the head.
you be a’ight.
don’t know where you are now.
i hope youre still alive.
you showed me more kindness
by the hand of a strange man.
than I had ever had
when I told you about my girls
living with their daddy.
we all have a story.
we all lost stuff.
lots of stuff.
i hope you found more than your lenses.
Now, I know you remember Me.
The little girl
The little girl you were jealous of,
Or so you said.
In the pathetic meeting
You called between my mother
You said I was beautiful.
But that was not meant as a compliment.
You said it because;
You tormented my already wretched existence.
Was it because you had bucked teeth?
Did that make you think you could belittle mine?
Was it your unfortunate looking family?
That made you think you could turn
Every decent friend I made
Was it because you were made
To wear poxy out of season clothes?
That you thought you had the right
To make my hand made clothes
The laughing stock of your churchy click?
Was it because you were fat?
That you thought you then had the right to criticise
What you didnt get,
Was my character
Didnt see all those things.
I enjoyed bike riding with you.
I enjoyed our picnics
So on and fucking so forth.
I enjoyed that shit.
I know your type now.
I can smell your stench a mile away.
So i let you go of you and yours,